Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The World Tree's song had changed. What was once steady had flared wild, surging like a river breaking its banks.

Mana swept through the city in an unseen tide, strong enough that even the lesser elves in their homes stirred in their sleep, frowning, clutching their chests.

Vaelthorn's breath hitched. Not since the War of Sundering had he felt such a shift.

"By the roots…" His voice was a rasp. "Something has awakened."

He pressed harder against the roots, closing his eyes. The pulse was not blind, not wild, it carried direction. It radiated from deep within the Tree itself, where no one but chosen guardians or summoned souls could walk.

And at its heart… a new spark blazed. Young, fierce, golden.

It wasn't the Tree's own breath. No, this was someone else. Someone bound.

"Lindarion…"

The name left his lips before his mind could stop it. The boy, the prince of Eldorath, who had entered his halls only yesterday, cloaked in weariness and silent fire.

The air thickened. The pressure was undeniable now, bending even the wards that had held for centuries. Vaelthorn staggered, sweat prickling across his brow.

Then, silence. Follow current novels on N0veI.Fiɾe.net

The pulse fell still. The power sank back into the roots as though it had never surged at all.

But Vaelthorn knew better. He could feel it even now, faint, tethered like a second heartbeat beneath the Tree's. Something had changed within its depths. Something profound.

The doors to the chamber creaked. Queen Sylwen entered quietly, her emerald eyes sharp in the dim light. "You felt it too."

Vaelthorn exhaled slowly, straightening. His voice was low, grim. "I felt more than that. The World Tree has chosen. Someone walks with its breath now."

Sylwen's gaze hardened. "And you believe it is the Sunblade prince."

"I do." He turned to the high windows, watching the pale glow of mana still lingering faintly over the treetops. "The boy carries weight already, too much for his years. If the Tree has bound itself to him…"

Sylwen's lips pressed thin. "Then he is no longer merely a prince. He is a vessel."

Vaelthorn's jaw clenched. His memories clawed at him, of old wars, of vessels that burned too brightly, too briefly. Of chosen ones crushed beneath the burden of their blessings.

His hand curled against the root. "If this is true, then Lindarion Sunblade's fate has just entwined with ours. And if he falters…"

He left the words unsaid. The silence was heavy enough.

The queen's gaze softened briefly, though her voice was steel. "We must watch him closely. And we must decide, whether he will be our salvation, or our undoing."

Vaelthorn closed his eyes again, listening to the faint, distant hum beneath the roots. Golden, bright, unyielding.

The World Tree had spoken.

And for the first time in centuries, the king of Lorienya felt the stirrings of dread.

—

The light receded, but the echo of Elyndra's touch lingered, humming through Lindarion's veins. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, every inhale heavy with power, every exhale burning against his ribs.

The chamber around him shifted again, roots peeling away, curling back to reveal a pedestal woven of wood and crystal. Upon it lay not a sword, nor a shield, but a bow.

It was unlike any weapon he had seen before. Its body was carved from ivory-white wood that seemed alive, pulsing faintly with the same golden light that had just engulfed him.

Vines coiled around its length, and the string shimmered not with thread but with mana itself.

Elyndra's voice rippled faintly through the chamber, softer now, as though her presence strained against the walls of time.

"Strength comes not only from the blade that rends, but from the arrow that reaches. This bow was forged when the roots first drank from the heavens. Few have touched it. None have mastered it. Until you."

Lindarion stepped forward. His fingers hovered over the bow, his reflection caught in the golden gleam of its surface. White hair, golden eyes, foreign, yet his. He curled his hand around the grip.

Warmth shot through him instantly, different from the sword's hunger or Selene's steady presence. This was patient, quiet strength. Distance weaponized. A whisper that promised, your reach will always be farther than theirs.

[System Notice: Artifact Detected, Bow of Elyndra.]

[Properties: Divine Growth Weapon — attunes to user's core. Generates mana-formed arrows. Amplifies precision, distance, and elemental affinities.]

[System Notice: No available storage slot detected. Would you like to access Inventory?]

Lindarion froze.

His throat tightened. He hadn't touched the System's inventory since childhood. Back then, it had been nothing more than an empty, black void, like dropping books into darkness and pulling them out again. Harmless. Innocent.

But after years of silence, seeing the words now felt like claws scraping down his spine.

Slowly, he answered in his mind. Yes.

[Inventory Accessed.]

The air in front of him rippled. A hole tore itself into existence, perfectly circular, pitch-black, edges writhing faintly as if reality disliked being peeled back.

It wasn't large, no bigger than a man's chest, but it hummed with that same uncanny resonance as the sword.

Ashwing's voice slipped into his thoughts, childish curiosity laced with unease. 'That thing feels… wrong.'

'It always has,' Lindarion admitted.

He lifted the bow and, with steady hands, pressed it toward the void. It slid in without resistance, vanishing into the dark. Not swallowed. Not destroyed. Simply, gone.

The hole sealed with a whisper.

[Item Stored.]

A flicker of relief washed through him. The bow was safe. Hidden. He could call it back if needed. But no one else would see it until he wished.

He exhaled, turning back toward the chamber. The roots pulsed one last time, golden light brushing against his skin.

Elyndra's voice faded, nearly a whisper now.

"You carry blade, bow, and burden. Wield them wisely. For the roots will not save you again."

Then she was gone. The chamber dimmed, the glow fading into the quiet pulse of the World Tree itself.

Lindarion stood alone in the silence, white hair brushing his shoulders, golden eyes gleaming in the dark.

Ashwing shifted against his collar, his small lizard form restless. 'You look different, he murmured. But… you're still you. Right?'

Lindarion's lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained hard. "I'm still me."

But even as he said it, the hum of new strength in his veins whispered otherwise.